Ever since he left the bustling streets of Luca behind, the hairs on the back of Zveran’s neck had been standing. He reshoulders his pack, adjusting to make it more comfortable, as well giving him the chance to peek behind him.
He couldn’t see anything, but that didn’t mean no one was there, and if he let them get the better of him, if they caught him by surprise, well. The thieves who trained him would be very disappointed.
-He's definitely not happy about the ice spells, but he's doing his best not to show it.
Masque rises to their feet, calm, collected (ignoring the panic in their gut). They've faced death before with far less in their favour.
"You would interrupt a summoner's prayer to the fayth?"
"Yevon above-" The priests scatter back, most looking in shock, some disgusted.
"We truly had no idea, please be aware that the guards who denied you will be punished-"
Masque contains their laughter, and shifts so they're stood at Zveran's shoulder, a definitely smirking, but still somewhat intimidating presence.
"I don't want your apologies, or really anything from you, except to walk past you," Zveran says, dry as Home.
The priest who was talking bows deeply. "We will not deny your passage."
The priests step back and form a gap between them.
Zveran wraps his hand around Masque's arm (it was taking a lot to remain standing, but he would not fall in front of them), and heads towards the door.
Masque continues to be a steady presence, head tilted back in a surprisingly arrogant display.
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